Ahalya shrugged her shoulders, and the two of them were silent for a few minutes, Neila waiting patiently for the mystery that she knew her lady would reveal—in time. Presently, indeed, the Ranee began to speak, in a low, reflective tone as if she were merely thinking aloud. “In all those months when my lord and the rest were away, fighting, I have thought many times of Ragunáth, who was kind to me at my first coming here. I thought I should be happy when he came again. I wanted him to come. And oh, Neila, thou knowest the days have been long and lonely, and I have been sick for Dhár and for my mother. My lord is very tender of me, and I know that he is good. But he is not young and beautiful to look on. His eyes are not bright nor do his lips smile when he sees me. And Ragunáth seemed younger and more in love with life. Last night, when I danced the poppy dance, it was for him. But, Neila, I have perceived that he is not a man. He makes me think of a snake, with his shiny eyes and his long, still hands. He does not burn with an honest fire.—Ugh, I hate him! So will I tell my lord.”
“Thou wilt not, Lady Ahalya! Thou darest not tell the Rajah you have seen this man! We should all be killed!” Neila sprang to her feet, her work dropping unheeded, while she stared at her mistress, who lay, hands clasped above her head, staring off into space, nor gave the slightest heed to her companion’s fear. Thus Neila presently returned to her place and took up her work again, not without anxiety in her eyes; for the service of the youngest wife of the Lord of Mandu was, to say the least, no monotonous life. Ahalya was as erratic and as reckless as an existence of stifled loneliness can make a young, brilliant, and impulsive nature. And this very careless openness, mingled as it was with a singularly pure and unsuspicious nature, had won a place for her with every one, from the King of Mandu down to the humblest eunuch of the zenana. She was even tolerated by Malati, the oldest wife, who had been born a Brahman. And than this nothing more can be said.
For some moments Ahalya continued to smile into space; which smile, considering her just-avowed aversion to Ragunáth, Neila was decidedly at a loss to interpret. Then Ahalya asked:
“Neila, have any of the slaves told thee anything concerning the captives brought home in the Rajah’s train?”
“Yes, Kasya spoke to me of one of them, who has been made the King’s cup-bearer. He presumes greatly on his station; for last night he would not even sleep in the slave-house, but lay on the divan in one of the Rajah’s antechambers, sleeping like a god. This man was a prince of his race:—At—Ak—I cannot remember—”
“Asra,” put in Ahalya, quietly.
“Asra! ’Tis that!”
Ahalya sat suddenly up and leaned forward a little. “Kasya told you this! Said he more? What will they do with him? Will he be ransomed?”
“The captive, madam?” Neila, so used to her mistress’s whims, was still surprised at this one. “I do not know what they will do with him. Kasya did not tell me. He was offered on Indra’s altar to-day—being by birth Kshatriya, and the chief of the captives.”
“Yes. He is a prince. Neila, I have seen this man.”